It'll Be Ok Mama
by flawsinscience
Summary: The summer of 2011 changed Harry/Nikki forever.... -tissue warning-


_It'll Be Ok Mama_

The extra humeral machinery whizzed and clicked to a draconian rhythm. There was no opportunity for emotional flutter or a silent pointer that he knew. The couple, a professional case of unsung love stood, huddled so close together they blended, one dented soul complementing the other, like a lock and key to each others heart keeping passive vigil.

The heart.

It's a curious organ, capable of autonomic innervation, yet retaining the ability to stop working in a metaphorical and literal sense, much like an old television giving up it could literally short out. Neither parent was magical enough to hold powers capable of preventing attack after attack, like a mystical battle invisible forces worked. Each second was another victory, every moment spent without a blown fuse or torn aorta was worthy of celebration. Other children had annual birthdays, but this little boy was dearly special, he was already 21; day's that is.

The crib bore reminders of the life waiting for him, much like a traveller would decorate a simple abode with mementos of home. Plane print sheets shone brightly under his swaddled bundle, a toy giraffe stood guard at his feet, and he wore a blue cap, signifying his gender. Disguised close to his skin were wires, the extra humeral trails that stopped him being snatched away from this world?

A lifeline.

His name was famous, a rare wonder of the tiny world he existed in. So many cared for him in various capacities, the magic people put his body over everything, ensuring each and every organ did as it were supposed to, giving him magic dust through clear tubes. The fairies would joyously greet him every morning, busy with readying him for a day much the same to the previous. Others, the unstoppable good, were there because they loved him, all of him. He regretted the pain approaching them, a freight train of emotion driving the fast-track route. The conductor bore black and only black, transposing souls from one life to the next, dropping them with the jolly uncle, destined for judgement. Through large glassy eyes he'd witness a sly tear as he was pressed to her chest, running jerky limbs over her pale, pale skin. _It'll be ok mama_ he'd say, beyond the tubes the magic people had rammed in, stopping his sing-a-long cries in their tracks. Instead he'd comfort himself with the quiet moments spent rocking out with patriarch in charge, listening to amazing stories of plane rides and hot sunny climates, mystical places he'd only witness from high, high above. Soon, far too soon. The hushed moments of midnight hours were passed with tales of her world, her dreams for him, her innermost desires for him to simply be happy. Happy and pain free, two very low cost outcomes too morally expensive for her to comprehend.

He noted that once every 4 sleeps the room would fill with dread, magicians and fairies holding court at his bedside. Fibres of prowess wrapping him against an eternal winter chill; the Narnia-like washes of personified ice littering his homely space. Occasionally, rarely he might suggest the good people would return after a short time away, tracks of tear stains ravened on their faces. He would try valiantly to poke a hand from his bundle, _it'll be ok mama_. He would rise, carefully presented to his mama, rocking back and fourth in synch with her soft, warm whisper.

_Lamtietie damtietie doe-doe my liefstetjie _

_Moederhart rowertjie, dierbaarste diefstetjie _

_Luister hoe fluister die wind deur die boompetjie _

_heen en weer wieg hy hom al oor die stroompetjie _

_Doe-doe-doe blaretjie, slapenstyd nadertjie _

_Doe-doe-doe blommetjie, nag is aan kommetjie _

_So sing die windjie vir blaartjies en blommetjies. _

She'd while away time, explaining how he'd robbed her heart, or at least part of it. Wrestling with her emotions, rocking forwards with happiness and sinking back with grief. Sometimes they'd both be there, etching each dewy wrinkle into their minds; there'd always be a camera close by, creating a permanent snapshot of momentous cuddles.

He notes the sad days increase, more and more apathy draws over his tiny body, slowing the flow of life-giving blood, death rings a warning bell, slowing his heart to a near stop, before running full speed. If he squints at the roof long enough (and trust me he tries) a black spark sits, smelling of negativity. The time is nearing, he supposes. Slowly he looses grip on reality; soft whispering apologies of torment come from his mama's lips. He knows she never meant any of the pain he's enduring, reality distorts his mind. Fogged vision leaves him dreamy and floppy but he always feels their presence. Occasionally he's placed in the arms of a man too experienced with death; in their solitary he explains that death isn't scary, that he's going to be just fine. He'll have family there, like he does here; perhaps they'll all be children or perfect adults, capable of unequivocal love without the negativity of sin.

Religion is a palpable presence, pressed between the rosary beads of the sad older lady he takes to be related to patriarch. She shoos his parents away, warning of ill health and promises of home cooked food. She brings him out of the plastic box he inhabits, displayed like a fragile ornament – not so far from reality. They spent hour's together, reading from books she brings. He likes her, and he's sure that given a chance he'd have her under his thumb.

Eventually mama returns, cardigan wrapped tight in a protest of _being just fine thank you_. Deft and skilled she lifts him into her arms, mesmerized with understanding him.

The thirtieth birthday is very different, there is no invasion of magicians and fairies, except one who comes and removes each and every tube, lifting his tiny, frail entity into a strange contraption that lets him move around. Tiny sobs crescendo and diminuendo like fireworks, erupting and dying away with unpredictability. Like a disorganised army his good people gather, carrying the bag of his belongings (entirely how he ended up with so much stuff he doesn't know – or care) He watches the long corridor pass in a blur, a curious metal box engulfing them from high in the sky, returning them to the foothills of a noisy world. They stop beside another metal box, containing seats arranged so very antisocially. But he doesn't move from the strange contraption, he's glad; the breeze is balmy and pleasurable against the bare patch of cheek exposed.

His mama explains they'll walk through the park; it's such a wonderful day out. Occasionally patriarch takes the helm, speeding over uneven pavement making him squirm with happiness, freedom feels amazing. His mind feels less dozy, listening to the chirp and whoosh of life outside his tiny plastic box. The grey surrounds melt into green, lifting upwards again, a triumph. He's lifted from his confines by mama, bathed in warm sunlight. She smiles intently, stifling a gurgle of happiness as a blanket is laid out. Together they cuddled bathed in the balmy July breeze. How does one live a life in twenty-four hours, hushed dreams waft over his vanishing body, snuggled close between hope and love, it's an indefinite sentence.

Palliative.

It's a phrase he knows nothing of, but experiences its stigma acutely, he squirms wearily as he's delicately swaddled close to mama, taking one final nap as they chase the sun homeward. Their home is warm, measures of love; compassion and freedom cradle it in positivity. A small welcome party greet them; there isn't a celebratory sign or party poppers (they've already had those on day 17, they gave him arrhythmia). It's the loved one standing inside the station after a train leaves the station. Open arms bared; ready to catch shattering pieces of heartache.

He passes from one warm embrace to another, blue lips bared with hope. Eventually they return him to mama, enjoying a simple supper of chicken pie and vegetables. Not that he or his parents could stomach anything, she intrinsically knows when to shoo her visitors away, sensing his slowing breath, the rattle of a delicate rib cage.

They decide to cuddle in bed; the duvet can play guard to their impending departure, and trick death away for one more rush of strength. She quickly changes into her nightclothes, the fabric is soft and loose, letting her keep feeling his body shutting down. Patriarch holds them both close, gazing down at the heavy eyes of terminal life. They babble away quietly, he clings to the cusp of their discussion, cooing and spluttering in understanding, grabbing at proffered fingers, completing the circuit between them.

A sense of warmth encroaches as his body swells with a blind light. It's a peaceful process; energy transfers his soul from this world to that train, gripped tight in the arms of death as his blueing remains cool with the night.

He hears a final whisper of love as his hearing stops, followed by his heart, a feeling of nothing and the soft, barely audible sniffle and shuffle of bed clothes as they melt into one scorching pot of eternal loss.

Her dreams are filled of the occasions he missed, the first steps on a breezy winters day, the first day of school. Graduation, he would have been so very handsome, much like his heritage. The beautiful intelligent woman he'd have brought home for her approval. The respect for her past, the summers in South Africa; for all the times when he would be with her, wrapped tightly in her being.

_Oliver Alexander Cunningham June 21__st__ 2011 – July 21__st__ 2011 _


End file.
